He’s young, the butcher, already bald, with eyes that are a little sad. It must have been his father’s shop once, or his uncle’s. His hands have an intimacy with the countertops, he has been back there his whole life. He works with knives, he works with death, although he doesn’t think of it that way. And the thing is he’s got the sweetest voice, low and gentle and full of something that sounds like love, but can’t possibly be. When you need someone to tell you that everything is going to be okay, it’s his voice you want, shhh honey it’s all gonna work out fine.
Advertisements
0 Responses to “at the butcher’s”